Dead Mann Walking (29 page)

Fort Hammer's Main Street was a throwback to the days of cheap land. The grand avenue was so wide it looked like the two sides of the street wanted nothing to do with each other. The buildings were pretty much the same: Georgian brick storefronts, neoclassical public buildings, like the library and the town hall. Most were more than eighty years old, echoes of ancient prosperity. The bigger the building, the less interesting. Style gives it up to function. Our two 1950s skyscrapers were little more than boxes with doors and windows.

Generally, you don't see chakz in this part of town, maybe a messenger or two, but I was seeing lots. They're easy enough to spot; most walk pretty funny. And it wasn't only single chakz; it was groups. Five together, ten, all moving toward the central plaza. It was the beginnings of Jonesey's rally. The Dead Man Walk.

I'd thought at best he'd get thirty marchers. That
might
be okay, if they were smart ones, corpses who could keep their act together. Then the LBs could say, “Oh, look at the cute chakz carrying signs! I didn't know they could write!” But down the block one or two hundred had gathered, and there were more stepping in from the side streets. It was too many, way too many. More like people would say, “Shit, a horde!” I was inclined to agree.

The cops were out in force, and they weren't worried about a stolen car. They were setting up wooden sawhorses, all keeping one hand on their guns. The guy with the flamethrower was here, too. This was a mess that could go bad fast, in a town famous for things falling apart. Between this scene and Turgeon's head collection, I was starting to believe in the end of the world. Not that I particularly liked the beginning or the middle.

Distracted, I nearly rammed a FedEx truck. All around me, livebloods were eyeing protestors like they wished they had a weapon handy. I felt a twinge. I should do something. Like what? Find Jonesey and tell him to call it off? Too late for that. Half the marchers would go feral from disappointment, and Jonesey would go right along with them.

That's how we do things in Fort Hammer! Rush in where angels fear to tread, then suddenly realize that maybe the angels, being
angels
, had the right idea in the first place. Send a man to the moon? Sure! Bring democracy to the Middle East? Why not? Raise the dead? Line 'em up! Jonesey, you fucking all-American idiot.

The main avenue ended at a big, all-brick plaza—the official city center. I made a sharp left and headed for the only modern construction in sight, the abandoned Everwing Hospital complex. We have so many stories like it, the basics are as worn as the plot of an old
I Love Lucy
, only with more lives at stake.

Everwing. The plans were approved after some genius figured out how to cut corners by importing questionable material from China. Two months after opening, they found asbestos in the plasterboard, cadmium in the paint, and enough E. coli in the water system to make everyone's pants want to get up and dance. One blogger suggested they keep it open, because at least folks would be in a hospital when they got sick.

Instead, it was covered up in thick plastic sheets that flapped and belched toxic dust whenever the wind blew. A giant farting corpse. All six buildings were currently undergoing remediation. That's a fancy way of saying they're trying to scrape out all the poison shit that'll kill you and take it somewhere far away, where it can kill some other people you don't know. Just what you want in your town center.

With all the cops and the pedestrians gawking at the chakz, no one noticed when I drove around the hospital barricade. Only a complete moron would go in there anyway, right? With a thick whoosh that reminded me of being in a car wash, I passed through the plastic and headed down into the facility's underground parking lot. Up to one hour of poisoning, free. My little VX capsule was less than a raindrop in a storm here. If I didn't run into Turgeon, this might be a good place to bury it.

Only, it looked like I had run into Turgeon.

The second I flashed on my headlights, I spotted tire tracks in the dust ahead of me. Maybe I was just being paranoid, but if any remediation teams came in this way regularly, why only one set of tracks? I stopped the car and got out for a closer look. Took a while for my eyes to adjust, but I waited. They looked about the right size for a Humvee.

I followed the tracks on foot, down, down, down the graded concrete and steel, along rows of empty, numbered spaces. Sunlight was a thing of the past. At the bottom levels, the only light was the glow of an occasional Exit sign above a gray metal door.

I was about to turn the last corner when I heard that boyish voice. Turgeon. I thought he'd spotted me, even though I couldn't see him or his car, but he was talking to someone.

“Please don't talk like that. I hate it when you say things that way. I'm
not
the one.”

Whoever answered had some kind of speech impediment. The response came in a harsh, garbled whisper, almost like a toy train clacking on a track in slow, slow motion, or a paper bag dragged across cement, soft and crackly.

Turgeon seemed to understand it. “That's not what I meant.”

I slowed, crouched, hugged the wall, but made the last turn and kept descending. At the bottom, I made out the Humvee, parked near an elevator. The dim light made the piss yellow closer to the color of blood. A Dumpster, full of construction debris, had been plopped catty-corner in the space opposite him. Whenever Turgeon talked, I made for it.

His rounded back was to me, but he bobbed nervously, like he might spin around any second. “But it's
not
my fault. Can't you . . .”

As he spoke, he faced a heavy lump sitting on the hood. It wasn't a silver eagle or a winged angel, but I guess you could call it a head ornament. It was the one head I'd seen strapped in the passenger seat. It was making the sounds.

Don't know why I didn't out-and-out lose it. Maybe it was the dim lighting that made everything look flat and unreal, or maybe I was more fascinated than sickened. How could it make sounds at all? I noticed it moved its cheeks before it spoke. Curious, I exhaled, pushing all the air out of my lungs, then puffed my cheeks and forced the air through my nose. Maybe it was using those muscles to draw air through its neck. Could work, I guess.

Whatever it meant by its last crackles, Turgeon didn't like it at all. His tone dived from whiny to annoyed.

“Stop it! I'll put you back with the others! I can and I will! You're not so big now!”

The others? Right. The duffel bag sat on a big flat wooden cart with a metal handle near the car. It didn't take much to figure he was threatening to stuff the head in there. He gave it a little kick to make his point.

“Of course I wouldn't.” He sounded pouty again, like the last harsh noise had put him back in his place.

I reached the back of the Dumpster and tried to focus on the sounds.

The noises were soft, struggling, but intentional, like someone trying to play a trumpet by blowing through the mouthpiece with a straw. It was using words, best as it could. The first sentence I made out was something like:

Turgeon gave it a loud
tsk
and stamped his feet on the dusty concrete. “It's not just for me! It's for all of you.”

“Stop.”

“You know I can't, Daddy.”

Daddy?
So the family-killer theory wasn't far off the mark.

“Not your father.”

“
Step
father! Stepfather! Fine!” In frustration, he kicked the dolly.

Close enough. Either way, it was clear he wanted stepdaddy's approval. He was begging for it. If the pattern held true, Turgeon's stepfather must have been executed for killing his wife. That would be Turgeon's mother, wouldn't it?

Plenty of time to play Name that Sick Motive later. I had to decide what to do now, while he was distracted. If I rushed up to try breathing in his face, I'd have to come at him from the front. Too risky. I only had one shot, and I didn't want to blow it. Besides, he was still talking. For better or worse, that good-cop instinct kicked in, the one that still thought about bringing him in to justice. And he was still talking. I didn't know how far the conversation would go, but just in case, I fumbled for the recorder, pressed the button, and aimed the mike at Turgeon the Great and his amazing talking head.

Of course, the second the little red light went on, they shut up.

Not the duffel bag, though. Ever since he'd kicked it, it was pulsing more and more. Now a whole choir of scraping sounds came from inside, a jumble of sources. It dawned on me that Wilson and Boyle would be in there. Nell Parker, too? Not that I recognized any of the voices. Best I could do was pick out a couple of words, none happy:

“Help . . . die . . . why . . . murder . . . cutter.” That didn't do much to improve Turgeon's mood. He

That didn't do much to improve Turgeon's mood. He grabbed his ears and wheeled back toward the head ornament. “Talk to them!” he howled. “Talk to them!”

“No,” the “daddy” answered.

“Ripping . . . blood . . . monster . . . killer . . .”

The heads didn't seem to like him very much. I wasn't surprised, but Turgeon was. He looked hurt, like he was ready to cry.

“You're the only one who can.”

“No.”

“I told you, it's just these
three
! Just them, all right? Just these three and I promise I'll be done. I swear I'll stop.”

“No.”

Seeing he wasn't getting anywhere, Turgeon forced himself to simmer down. He approached the head apologetically, stroked what was left of its cheek. “I'm so sorry I'm shouting. I get so angry. I get so upset. Ever since I saw that boy's skeleton it's been so hard to calm down. It almost got me! And that detective got away. He's dangerous. He must know by now. He must know I killed his wife. He just doesn't understand that I did it
for
him. None of them do!”

Lenore. He'd said it. There it was. A
confession
.

I couldn't let him see me, but there was a loud roar and for the longest time I thought it came from me. Took me to the count of ten to realize it didn't; it was the duffel bag. The heads in it were twisting harder, getting louder, like they were screaming
for
me. Turgeon, the idiot, had reminded us all that he was the one who'd stolen our loves, our lives, beaten them until their bodies caved.

“Killed her . . . you did it . . . oh, God. . . . why, God . . . killed him . . . no, not her . . . wasn't me . . .”

The bag wobbled precariously. It took all I had to keep from running out and throttling him. If I was sure I'd actually be able to kill him, I'd have done it in a second.

Turgeon shouted at the bag like it was a disobedient pet. “They were hurting you! Driving you away! I was doing you a favor!” He turned back to the head ornament. “Daddy, tell them they're free now! You have to tell them they should be happy!”

It moaned two words: “Put me . . .”

Relief washed over Turgeon so strongly, he looked like he shrank an inch. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He wiped his brow, then gently, almost lovingly lifted the head. I saw the tendrils again, drooping from the stump of the neck. What muscles there were pulsed in tune with its words, fanning air up into the throat, like gills on a fish.

“One last time,” it said.

He put Daddy on the dolly and opened the edge of the bag. Using the same neck muscles that let it make noises, it
squirmed
inside the rustling bag. The weird slurred speech echoed through the space. Deferential as he'd been, Turgeon yanked the duffel bag closed and gave it a rough shake that quieted them down. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. I'd hate to see what he'd do with a hamster.

Once they were silent, he stopped and looked around. I thought he'd seen or heard me, but no. I did get a good look at him, enough to see that his oval face was bare. The air was so thick with crap, I could taste it on my tongue, but Baby-head didn't even wear a mask. Was this a suicide run?

No, he still didn't have me. And me? I had a recorded confession, something even Booth might listen to. I had my cell phone. I was about to use it when he opened the back of the Humvee and the air filled with Nell Parker's louder, more enthusiastic cries.

My whole body shuddered with relief. Not just because there was still someone I could save if I didn't screw up, but that it was her.

Turgeon picked up the head clippers, held their big, curved blades open, directly over her neck. I tensed, ready to jump out at him, but he didn't use them.

“You're only still in one piece because I promised Daddy I would wait,” he said. “But it wouldn't be the first promise I broke.”

She got the idea and settled down.

With some grunting, he loaded Nell onto the dolly, followed by the clippers and the duffel bag. The last thing he loaded up was a wooden crate with some writing on it: 40—8 Oz CHGS PE4.

What was that about? Damned if I knew what. Forty eight-ounce somethings. I tried playing Jonesey's memory game in reverse, thinking whatever came to mind—
chgs
. . . changes, charges? And the PE? Phys ed? Pro education?

Plastic explosives.

Forty eight-ounce charges of plastic explosive.

I could've saved myself the trouble if I'd noticed the timer slapped to the top and the wires running down into the crate. Nell figured it out faster than I did. She flopped around so violently, she threw herself off the dolly. The heads started squirming, too.